


Jealousy

by midnighhts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mary ships johnlock just for the angst, idk guys im getting rusty, lowkey jolto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighhts/pseuds/midnighhts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock doesn’t understand the anger simmering behind his tight-lipped smile. It’s not because of Mary - not anymore, at least; she makes a more melancholic, empty feeling bloom in his chest that makes it feel like his whole body has concaved into a void in his heart. This feeling is sharp, biting, and acidic. It’s hard to swallow. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to pay attention.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A <a href="http://late-nighhts.tumblr.com/post/128399486709/sherlock-doesnt-understand-the-anger-simmering">ficlet</a> written originally on Tumblr. Now edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

Sherlock doesn’t understand the anger simmering behind his tight-lipped smile. It’s not because of Mary - not anymore, at least; she makes a more melancholic, empty feeling bloom in his chest that makes it feel like his whole body has concaved into a void in his heart. This feeling is sharp, biting, and acidic. It’s hard to swallow. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to pay attention. His bespoke suit makes him itch and it’s too stifling. Everyone else is chattering way too loudly like the ignorant people they are, all blinded by the glamour of the wedding and smiling without a care. Too loud! Too bright! Too bloody infuriating!

 _Shut up_ , Sherlock wants to hiss, lash and scream; but this is John’s ~~and Mary’s~~ wedding. It is a ~~mediocre~~ good day and a ~~n absolutely terrible~~ perfect ceremony of love and faith. Sherlock promised to be good. (Sort of.) These are good people - obtuse people, but “good” people, nonetheless. They don’t know; they don’t anything. John ~~threatened him~~ said to behave.

He’s behaving, isn’t he?

He’s putting up with all the pleasantries and small talk, he hasn’t snapped at anyone yet, Janine seems to like him, he definitely didn’t smile ~~menacingly~~ at David. The constant  _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-taptaptaptaptap–_ of his fingers might annoy Janine sooner or later, and his ~~bared teeth~~ smile might throw people off; but he’s being good.

The feeling is new – like a raw, unattended wound. It makes his hands clench, teeth grit and blood boil. It’s a construct of his sentiment and loneliness - that much he knows ~~and detests~~.

It’s an oddly familiar feeling.

He doesn’t realise he’s crossed the room to stand next to Mary until he speaks up, pulling himself back out of his own whizzing thoughts. It’s close enough to get the most information, and just enough to be discreet. Mary’s presence helps to keep his cover, too.

“So that’s him: major Sholto.” His face twists into a frown. The name is like poison against his tongue. The biting feeling gnawing at the edges of his mind gets stronger as he studies the two blonds talking amiably by the large doors. Almost immediately, deductions spring up, all tinged red with anger that clouds the logical objectivity on which the consulting detective prides himself on. He sees the way the major looks at John, and the way John looks back at Sholto, and the way John smiles up at his“ _ex-commander_ ”. The anger rushes through his veins with a sinking feeling in his gut like he’s been kicked. It pounds through his head until everything else fades into white noise.

 **Sentiment**.

Oh, the word makes the beating in his head grasp his neck into an invisible choke hold. He clasps his hands behind his back so no one could see the way his hands balled into tight fists. ~~His nails dig into the heel of his palm.~~ (John wouldn’t want him to attack someone. John shouldn’t know about this gut-wrenching feeling. John should be happy today.)

(Do it for John.)

Mary keeps talking next to him, and he’s vaguely aware he’s replying like a petulant child. His pale gaze never strays from the duo, even as Sholto seems to gaze over at him – ~~and Mary~~. He stiffens slightly - ever so slightly under his suit, but he just glances at Mary and replies with something ~~anything~~.

He’s definitely not angry at how John smiles up at Sholto - the grin just a little too wide and a little too affectionate - or how highly John spoke of the man to Mary. ( ** _He_** _‘s the most unsociable man John‘s ever met?_ ) He’s not painstakingly bitter about how relaxed the doctor is around the other man despite the obvious hanging cloud of words unspoken and nostalgia seeped in sepia tones; whereas John still snapped at any mention of  _The Fall._ He’s definitely not cursing himself that it took a wedding - John’s wedding, for Christ’s sake - to understand the rage, the hurt, the hollow feeling, those emotions:

Jealousy.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mary hooks her arm around Sherlock’s, drawing the taller man’s attention away from the two. She grins, eyes cool yet ablaze with the look of  _knowing._ She’s smaller than he is, but it feels like she’s taking up all the space. “Neither of us were the first, you know.”

 


End file.
